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“I see.” I held in a laugh. “Well, I’m Shea, and if you need anything else, ask for me and I’ll come right out, okay?”
“Okay. My name’s Spencer.” He set down his fork and offered me his hand.
I shook his hand, impressed by his maturity. “How old are you, Spencer?”
“I’m nine.”
“It’s very nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you,” he said, biting off the end of a slice of bacon.
I wanted to sit down and talk to him, but the hollandaise sauce wasn’t going to whisk itself, so I gave him a little wave and went back to the kitchen.
The kids who stayed here made my job more fun. I hoped to one day have kids of my own, though it was looking less likely with each passing year.
CHAPTER THREE
Holt
“Holt Sellers,” Ryan Grady said with a grin. “It’s been too long, man.”
He gave me a backslapping man hug, and then Keller Strauss did the same. They sat at a table at the bar in The Sleepy Moose, where we were meeting up to discuss the new youth arena.
“How’s retirement?” Keller asked me. “Are you getting in lots of fishing?”
I scoffed. “Are you kidding? I’m a single dad. I cut crusts off of PB&Js, run my kids around to activities and fall asleep reading bedtime stories.”
“Living the dream,” Grady said.
“Aren’t you engaged?” I asked him wryly.
“Yep. The wedding is next month.”
“Shit, man. This time next year, you’ll be walking around with a baby sling.”
He shrugged. “I hope so. We want kids. And my mother is so desperate for grandkids, I think she might start overseeing our efforts to get pregnant.”
Keller nodded. “Yeah, I can actually see her setting up a lawn chair at the foot of the bed. Maybe wearing one of those hats with a light on it.”
I laughed and did my best imitation of a mom. “Son, you need to go deeper!”
Keller cackled and joined in. “No, that’s not where her clit is, Ryan!”
Grady grimaced. “Stop it, assholes. I don’t need that mental image living rent-free in my head.”
Keller and I exchanged a look as a server approached our table. I ordered a light beer, still too full from my late breakfast with Spencer to eat.
“Seriously, though,” I said to my old friends, “if you guys know of any six-year-old girls or nine-year-old boys, I want to help my kids make friends here.”
“Isn’t Mark Hanes’s daughter around six?” Grady asked Keller.
“Probably. And the Henson triplets are nine, two of them are boys.”
“Maybe I should have a party or something,” I said. “Spencer’s turning ten in July. You think they’d let me have a party here?”
“Have it at The Barn,” Keller said.
I furrowed my brow, unsure what he meant.
